


Hey, Jealousy

by inber



Series: Inber's Geralt x Reader Fanfiction [11]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, F/M, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jealousy, Light Angst, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Not Canon Compliant, Oral Sex, Orgy, Out of Character, Overstimulation, Pining Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sex Pollen, Smut, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:41:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23670973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/pseuds/inber
Summary: This was a reader request that I wrote; they wanted something involving the Orgy scene. Geralt gets jealous and overprotective.You’re pretty cosy with Jaskier on the road, believing Geralt to be indifferent. When you find yourself in a bit of a conundrum at Yennefer’s estate, he proves you quite wrong.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/You, Jaskier | Dandelion/Reader
Series: Inber's Geralt x Reader Fanfiction [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1840087
Comments: 7
Kudos: 413





	Hey, Jealousy

You could feel the weight of Geralt's molten gaze burning your skin from across the campfire, sharp and judgemental, although his handsome features were as impassive as ever.

When you'd met Jaskier at your town's inn and he'd discovered your skill with hand-to-hand combat – by buying you multiple cups of wine and chatting your ear off – you'd been excited to join the bard on the road as his bodyguard. You rarely had cause to travel, and Jaskier was charming, handsome, and made you laugh until you were hunched over, gasping for breath and begging for mercy. Not only was he offering coin, you strongly suspected that the offer of night company wasn't off the table. Why wouldn't you go for it? You had needs.

What you _didn't_ need was a brooding shadow of a Witcher haunting your every footstep.

Jaskier had neglected to mention that you'd be travelling as a trio – he presumed you already knew – and the first time you'd met Geralt of Rivia in the stables, you'd made a right ass out of yourself immediately.

“Jaskier!” You'd caught the bard's attention in a stage whisper, saddling your dapple-grey mare, “That's Geralt of Rivia. _The White Wolf._ Gods, but he's as fucking handsome as they say.” Wide-eyed, you'd watched the massive man tending to his own horse; his movements were graceful and precise. “Mmh. Don't know why he has to fuck his way through brothels. I'd pay _him._ ”

“Oh, yes,” Jaskier trilled, “That's Geralt. He doesn't say much, but he's actually quite delightful company, when it comes down to it. Hey, can I ride on your horse, too? Geralt makes me walk.”

“He-- _what?_ ” You spluttered, dropping a saddle-bag to the ground. “Fuck, Jaskier. Give a girl some warning. What if he'd heard me?”

“I heard you.” Geralt spoke; his voice was a delicious sliver of velvet, the brush of exotic danger. You felt the damnable flames of a raging embarrassment consume your entire body, and the glare you shot Jaskier was so heated that it was surprising the bard didn't simply combust under your focused disdain.

“He... has good hearing?” Jaskier shrugged, grinning boyishly, and you rubbed your face with your palm. Wonderful.

Things only got more awkward from there.

Jaskier was an affectionate travel companion, sat behind you on your patient, strong horse; he whispered silly tales into the shell of your ear, or tested the waters with a gentle hand on your waist when he pointed something out in the scenery to you. When he wasn't rebuffed, he took to casually cuddling you when you rode, and you thoroughly enjoyed the contact. You shared your own stories with him; little nothings about your clumsy youth, or why your horse was called 'Captain Chomp'. Even though he'd been warned, Jaskier insisted that he could win over any man or beast, and summarily you treated the bruised bite-mark later at camp.

Through all of this, Geralt was a silent sentinel, watching. If he was spoken to, he answered in a short grunt, or if absolutely necessary, snippets of sentences. Often, you caught him narrowing his gaze at you, and you had no idea why. After a week or so of travel in this manner, you'd approached him about it whilst watering the horses, Jaskier bathing at the far end of the lake – to 'preserve your virgin eyes', he'd said. You'd kicked him in the shin.

“It's a fine day.” You remarked, considering how to navigate a conversation with the imposing man of marble-and-gold, more lion than wolf, you'd have said.

“Hmm.” He grunted, and you wondered what you'd expected.

“Listen, Geralt...” You bit your lower lip and forced your gaze not to waver from his form, even as he apparently ignored you. He was fondly brushing Roach's mane; you thought it rather sweet. He did seem to love that horse. “I know we didn't meet, uh, in the most... _respectable_ of fashions.” Gods, you tried not to remember what you'd said, because you did enough of that in the hours before sleep, replaying the conversation, “And I apologise for that, sincerely. It was unbecoming of me.”

He paused, and met your gaze with his; your breath caught at how truly beautiful his eyes were, even split down the centre with that feline pupil that betrayed his mutation. You thought you saw the slightest tremor of a smirk on his lips, but it was gone so quickly that you couldn't be sure.

“Don't worry about it.” He murmured, monotone.

“Well, it's just that I feel like... you aren't exactly fond of me, and I was wondering if it was because of what I'd said.” _I'd pay him_ , your words echoed in your traitor brain, and you hoped he wasn't so endowed with sensitivity as to feel the heat of your blush.

“People have said much worse.” He picked a stray leaf from Roach's tail. “Don't worry about it.”

“I just wanted--”

A surge of water hit you from behind, completely soaking the white button-up blouse you wore, and you screamed as if you'd been stabbed. Geralt's focus was upon you instantly, looking for the threat; instead, he saw the wet curve of your breasts, and the peek of your tight nipples through the fabric. You were too shocked to register the raw lust that leapt into his vision, and you whirled on your feet to see Jaskier tugging his breeches back up, dripping wet, grinning impishly.

“Oh, oh, I'm going to fucking _kill_ you.” You seethed, storming towards him.

He laughed, and took a few steps back. “No, no no, no you're not. Then you don't get paid.”

“I do if I loot your corpse, you louse!” You screeched, before bodily tackling him into a thicket of grass, intent on choking him out. Jaskier might have thought that you'd engage in a cute, girlish water-splashing contest, but no; he had his work cut out for him as you wrestled him, easily hooking your arm around his neck as he flailed. “Say you're fucking sorry!”

“You're... fucking... _sorry._ ” Jaskier wheezed, grinning, even seconds away from unconsciousness.

“How attached are you to all your fingers?” You growled, “Because I'm thinking--”

“I yield!” The bard gasped, tapping your arm; you relaxed it, just a little. “Fuck, I'm sorry. You just looked a little dry, and I thought you'd look nicer _wet._ ” The inflection in his tone was raunchy. It simply earned him a fresh round of fighting, the two of you trading pokes and slaps and twists of limb without mercy.

Geralt watched you hold your own from afar, and smiled to himself.

\----------------

“Why are we to visit this Yennefer, anyway?” You asked at the campsite, casual. You'd all finished eating, and Jaskier was cuddled at your side for warmth. You had one arm slung about his shoulders.

“She has information about something I want.” Geralt offered, and you didn't expect him to expand. You glanced at Jaskier, who shrugged.

“Gods, must I torture all information from you, Geralt?” Exasperated, you huffed. He actually laughed, and the sound was rich and throaty. Even Jaskier stared.

“I'd love to see you _try_ to torture me.” Geralt growled, and you felt the stalk of his tone thrill up your spine. Beneath your clothes, your hair stood on end. Unable to back down from a challenge, you lifted your chin.

“I'd have you begging for mercy in ten minutes.” You promised.

“Prove it.” His teeth were a predator's porcelain in the lick of the firelight.

“ _Aaalr_ ight, stop fighting over me,” Jaskier interjected, “I love both of you dearly. There's enough of me for everyone. Anyway, it's late, and I'm tired.” He tugged your arm. “Come to bed?”

You glared at Geralt over the flames; he returned the look, heat-for-heat. Jaskier tugged again, and you relented.

“Fine. But sing that song I like so much?” Saccharine, you smiled. You heard Geralt's low groan of protest.

“Of course.” Jaskier rose and offered you his hand. Ladylike, you accepted it, and he pulled you to the tent you shared, beginning the verse that you knew the Witcher detested. “ _Wheeeen a humble bard..._ ”

\----------------

Out of respect for Geralt, you and Jaskier never did much but cuddle and spoon at night. You didn't feel right about climbing atop the bard and sating both your desires with loud, wild abandon; not whilst the Witcher could hear a squirrel sneeze from a mile away. There was a mutual understanding, however; once you had some time alone, or entered a town with an inn room you could rent, you'd explore your friendly relationship further. You certainly didn't mind when Jaskier's warm hands cupped your breasts over your clothes as you slept, or the throb of his morning erection against the curve of your ass.

More than once you'd had to restrain yourselves; more than once, Jaskier had slipped away before breakfast 'to bathe', which also gave you time to relieve your own pent-up desire. With quick fingers on your clit, you would muffle your orgasm into the crook of your elbow as best you could, temporarily relieving the ache that was getting worse with time.

You were truly thankful when the city of Rinde came into view, not just because it meant restocking your supplies and taking a short break. An actual bed, an actual decent meal, an evening with Jaskier; there was a lot to look forward to. You urged Captain Chomp into a slightly faster trot.

“We're going straight to Yennefer, yes?” Jaskier enquired, as you rode behind Roach. Geralt grunted; you presumed that meant 'yes'.

“Why are we to go see the mage, too?” You hissed, lowly. It was getting dark, and you thought about the wasted hours spent making small-talk with the woman.

“Because I write about Geralt's conquests, dove.” Jaskier informed you, “I go where he goes. If I don't, I miss out on a story – he's not the best at recounting events. Maybe you've noticed.”

You sighed with all the drama of a horny, scored woman. “Fine. But I don't wish to linger.”

“Neither do I.” Geralt piped up, and you had to snort. At least you were all on the same page.

You saw the horses tethered at the grand manor, and you stretched your road-wearied legs, blinking up at the estate. It was well-lit, and you thought you could hear activity inside. At least she was home, you thought.

There was nobody to greet you as you entered the hallway, which was unusual. A mage of rank usually kept servants. “Hello?” Jaskier chirped, into the strangely still belly of the first floor.

You narrowed your eyes. “I don't like this.”

Geralt grunted, dismissing you, and strode forward. You followed in his wake, keeping Jaskier close behind you. The knuckle-dusters in your pocket felt heavy, and you brushed your fingers over the dagger strapped to your hip.

A peculiar fog spilled down the stairs, curling like the invitation of ghostly fingers, and your suspicion spiked. “Geralt, I--” Again, he ignored you, and forged up the steps. Gritting your teeth, you followed. The hazy smoke felt pleasant somehow, warming, and you wondered at it; perhaps the mage was testing new spells or potions. You had no idea how mages worked.

When Geralt shouldered open a massive oak door, you realised that your ignorance ran very deep, indeed.

“ _What the fuck?_ ” The Witcher wondered, as you and Jaskier gaped at the scene unfolding before you.

Couples of all genders, ages, sizes – Gods, you thought you even saw elves – were twisting together in an erotic dance, in various states of undress. There were oils and candles and ropes and some things that you didn't even recognise – _was that a fucking horse whip?_ – and you stuttered your shock. The longer you stood there, the more you breathed of that strange mist. And the more you breathed, the more normal the carnal, writhing orgy seemed to appear. You felt the tenseness of your muscles begin to uncoil, as you stumbled a few steps into the place, collapsing bewildered onto a plush cushion. Jaskier tottered over to you, and sat at your feet.

Geralt was unaffected, striding through the haze with purpose to stand before a beauty of a woman; her olive skin was rich in the low-light, and she was one of the few present who wore clothes. You thought you saw the flicker of violet in her irises. “Gods, I want her to sit on my _face._ ” You slurred, and felt no shame at the sentiment like you should have.

She rose, examining Geralt like he was a treasure. Your attention drifted to Jaskier, who was taking in his surroundings, his warm hand on your thigh. So warm. It felt good. You shivered, and he turned to regard you; the vivid blue of his eyes was a mere sliver, consumed by his pupils. Without realising it, your hands were at the buttons of your shirt, popping them open one by one. Jaskier watched, transfixed, before he leaned in to capture your lips in a kiss.

His plush lips sent a spark of lust crackling across your entire body, and you returned the embrace eagerly, abandoning your open shirt in favour of raking your hands through the chestnut of his hair. He moaned into your mouth and you licked up the sound, kittenishly nipped his lower lip, pressed your body into his. Faintly, you were aware of a blonde woman behind him, her hands on his wide shoulders as she helped him out of his doublet. You didn't care. _The more the merrier_ , you drunkenly thought, as you breathed deeply of the lazy-hazy smoke, tilting your head back to allow Jaskier to run his mouth down your neck, to your breasts. You moaned, long and low.

“Yennefer, I just need to know if the tales of the djinn are--” Geralt was getting nowhere with the gorgeous mage, who was intent on toying with him, just as she manipulated the people in the room. He heard the sound of your voice, filled with lust, and whipped his gaze to regard you across the party. As Jaskier cupped your tits and laved your aching nipples with his tongue, Geralt growled.

“Friends, are they?” Yennefer asked, her ruby lips tugged into a smug smile. “The girl wants to fuck me, you know. I wasn't going to get involved in this nonsense, but she _is_ so very pretty...”

The Witcher whirled again, all bared teeth. “Release them from your spell.” He demanded.

“Why would I?” She blinked, playing the part of naïve so naturally, “They are having such fun.”

At this point, you were straddling Jaskier, finding the lacings of his breeches too complicated for your dopey fingers; instead, you were taking your pleasure from the friction of his hard cock in a slow dry-fuck, the curve of your back pornographic, your fingers tangled in the hair of his chest. He was moaning into the nameless blonde's cunt as she knelt over his face, lazily eating her out as she purred encouragements.

Geralt snapped.

He stormed away from the minx of a mage, who laughed in his jealous wake, and idled by your side. “Get off him.” He ordered, “We're going.”

You paused to regard the Witcher, your kiss-swollen lips parted, eyes half-lidded; he looked _magnificent._ He groaned when he realised that nobody was home upstairs in your mind, not right now. You were too far into the grasp of the spell, lost to lust. So he did the only rational thing he could think of.

He picked you up and hoisted you over his enormous shoulder, considered Jaskier for a moment – another person was already taking your place – and left the room. The bard didn't even notice.

You mewled in disappointment, feeling dizzy as the floor swayed beneath you. All of you was hot, and you were no longer getting the pleasure you so desperately craved. The sounds of the slick, heady party became distant. You were faintly aware of another descent, another set of stairs, and then your feet were touching the ground in a new room.

Without a thought you turned, seeking the door, your body wanting to return to the party. It knew the way. Geralt growled again, and slammed the only exit, heaving a barrel in front of it. With a whine of protest, you shoved at the heavy object in vain, struggling, before sliding down the wood to sit, dazed.

“Fuck's sake,” Geralt growled, pacing. You were in a small cellar, lit by a torch – although you could have been on top of a mountain, for all you were aware – and your eyes tried to follow his pacing. He was blurry. Handsomely blurry. “I should have _listened_ to you. I'm sorry I brought you here.”

Gods, but his voice was sexy. You palmed your own breasts, eager for some sensation. It wasn't enough. He glanced at you, stiffened, and resumed a faster pace. “Don't do that.” He barked.

“Mmmh.” You moaned, wriggling your undone breeches free from your hips, down the length of your legs. He could smell you before, but in this confined space it hit him like the savage slap of a merciless ocean wave, and he balled his hands into fists, pausing at a wall, pressing his forehead against it. Your cunt was aching, dripping; you ran your fingers along the slick of it and shivered.

“Stop.” He rasped, “Gods.” He squeezed his eyes shut so he wouldn't be tempted to look, but the sounds you were making were so divine that he couldn't help but steal a peek. Your fingers were curled inside yourself as you tried to stimulate some kind of release, sweating and frustrated. It felt like you were constantly on the brink of orgasm, but unable to push over the edge into release, left in a stasis of torture.

“I can't--” Geralt snarled, “I can't do anything whilst you're... like this. Fuck knows I _want_ to. It'll wear off soon enough, you just need to _endure_.” He begged you with his golden gaze, every muscle in his body coiled and corded, resisting.

You knew he was talking, but you didn't understand him. All you knew was that he sounded like sex, and you wanted him to keep doing it. “Please.” You managed, sniffling, squirming against your own hand. “Need, I need...”

“I know, sweet girl.” His voice was of an incoming storm, and the thunder of it rocked you. “I _can't._ ”

“Keep-- please. Keep... _doing that._ ” The sound of your own finger-fuck was an obscene thing in the shrink of the room, as you arched the small of your back. His eyes were pitch, as if he'd consumed a potion. Snatching a small pot from a shelf, he tried to keep his hands occupied.

“Keep doing what, sweetheart?” He asked, his voice a rough plea, “I don't know what to do. I can't give you what you want, I-- it wouldn't be right. I'd never--”

He was cut off when you squealed, the rawness of his voice enough to bring you to climax. Like a statue he watched your small release, the squirt of your juices, the hard pant of your breath as you shivered. He had that noise memorised from the mornings you relieved yourself when Jaskier was away, but watching it was an entirely spiritual experience. The jar in his hands shattered from the pressure he was gripping it with. “ _ **Fuck.**_ ”

It wasn't enough, not nearly enough, and you bucked uselessly against your own hand. “Plee- _eeease._ ” You sobbed, bleary gaze fixed on him, tears trailing your cheeks. The ache was enough to hurt you. He could see that.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck._ ” He chanted, dropping the remnants of the pottery to the ground. “Okay, I'll... my mouth, on you. This won't be about _me_ , sweet girl. I'll help you, but I can't... _be_ with you. Not like this.” His raging erection screamed at his own morals, but he fought back his selfish desire. You needed him.

His pretty voice was stroking you, that much you knew, but you were unprepared for his mouth on your cunt. Squeaking your surprise, you fisted a hand into his silvery hair and jerked your pelvis up sharply, feeling the delicious scratch of his stubble on your inner thighs. He growled into your folds, thrusting his tongue into your weeping pussy to taste you, before he replaced it with one thick, curled finger. His lips sealed over your clit and suckled. This was _exactly_ what you needed; the pain subsided and gave way to a tsunami of pleasure. Your head thudded back against the wood of the door as he brought you to climax in less than a minute, his moans joining your own, the massage of his fingertip on your g-spot constant and firm. Throughout the firestorm of this one, you rode his face savagely and he took it, worshipping your clit, knowing when you were becoming too sensitive for the pressure and relenting, only to toy with your button in tongue-tip circles, making you crest a second time. The flex of your walls was a morse-code on his hand, every climax bringing a fresh trickle of your wetness for him to devour.

You screamed, you bucked, you panted like an animal in heat, unable to get enough of the feeling. Your hands were everywhere, scratching the door behind you, knitted into his long hair, cupping your breasts. Still he stimulated you, and still you came. There was no beginning or end; your orgasm became cyclical, a world for you to dissolve into bodily, the electric snap of your nerves a sea-storm that you joyfully weathered. Time had no meaning for you. Nothing existed except the feeling of him, the fierce sound of his growling, the constant _relief_ he provided you selflessly, again and again.

For the better part of an hour, he had you in this state; the only times he paused were when you became hoarse from screaming, and then he fetched you a jug of water from the shelves, demanding that you drink of it. Finally, the haze began to lift; he felt it in the slackening of your fucked-out muscles, and heard it in the confused guests descending the stairs en masse. Yennefer had grown bored.

With care, he withdrew from your sore, quivering cunt, doing his best to tug your breeches back on. When that proved to be impossible, he simply slipped his own shirt off and wrapped you in it, lifting you. You were rag-doll limp, but he heard your steady breath and heartbeat. Some part of you became aware of the sound of hoofbeats, the rumble of his bare chest as he spoke, the slip of fresh cloth on your sweaty skin. But for the most part, you drifted.

\----------------

You awoke to an afternoon sun, moaning at the feeling of your aching muscles. Your mouth was dry and your throat a razor-wire slice; you fumbled sleepily for the tankard of water at the bedside and drank it all in frantic gulps. And then you became aware of a warmth behind you.

“Jaskier,” You rasped, “What the fuck _happened?_ ”

“Not Jaskier.” Geralt's voice made you turn so quickly that your entire body protested at the movement; he was tucked in beside you, shirtless. You stared at him with wide eyes; it was about then that your aching pussy made itself known, and you whimpered.

“Did... did we... fuck?” You whispered, and he frowned.

“Not... exactly.”

“Why do you have no shirt on, then? In... my bed? Is this my bed?”

“You're wearing my shirt.” He explained, and you looked down. Oh.

“Yennefer's... party.” You tried to recall, “There was...” Blinking, vague memories danced in the eye of your mind. “I think I had a really, really strange dream.”

“Wasn't a dream.” Geralt murmured, shifting slightly to face you. “She had some kind of lust spell active. Both you and Jaskier were affected.”

Faintly, you recalled kissing the bard – and also a blonde woman. Then you remembered stairs, the snarl of a beautiful voice – Gods, _what_ a voice – and then an aggressive pleasure that had consumed you so entirely that you couldn't pinpoint how or what or why it had occurred. Recalling it made your lower body tense, and your cunt practically screamed – _not for awhile, bitch!_

“You were there.” You blinked, “You took me from the party.” It didn't make sense; you shook your head. “Why...?”

You'd never seen Geralt look so exposed, so contrite. So _human_. “I couldn't bear... to watch. It's not my business. I'm sorry. But I just-- I don't--” He struggled, “I had to get you away from it.”

You fumbled to understand. “I thought you didn't like me.”

He groaned, and rubbed a his eyes with a hand. You saw how exhausted he looked. “I tried not to. I really did. I wanted Jaskier's happiness. Fuck, I didn't know what I felt. From the first day in the stables, you... drew me in, somehow. It wasn't until Jaskier asked me if I'd be okay with you two renting a room for a few nights here in Rinde that I realised...” His eyes met yours, “I was _jealous._ I-I had no right. I have no right. But fuck, I was. I am.”

“Jealous?” You parroted, stupidly, disbelieving.

“Yes. But Jaskier, he's a good man. And I respect him. So I kept my distance, until I saw--” His jaw pinched tight, and his gaze fled from yours. “I didn't think, I acted. And you were in pain. I _swear_ to you I did not take my pleasure from your flesh. I just needed you to be safe. I'm sorry.”

Whirling with this information, you stared. He could not meet your gaze. For the first time, it was you in silent judgement, and him making a fool with a stream of verbal nonsense.

“Jaskier is safe. He's in another room with two people – a woman and a man that he would not release his grip upon, even after the spell subsided. I stayed here to make sure you were okay, but if you want, I--”

“Geralt.”

“--Can go. If you wish me away, I won't seek you again. I understand if--”

“Geralt!”

Finally, he stopped, and you gently placed your fingers on the sharp line of his jaw, seeking his eyes again. They were softened and wary. “You helped me. And maybe I could not have said yes before, but if I said yes later... well, I wasn't joking about what I said when we first met. I like you, too.”

His brow rose, the lightness in his gaze reminding you of poured honey. “What... of Jaskier?”

You snorted. “You think Jaskier is monogamous? He'll probably want to _join_ us.”

Geralt frowned. “I don't like sharing.”

Laughing, you leaned in, pressing your lips against his chastely. “I believe that has been established.” He murmured, returning the affectionate gesture. “We'll talk to him later. See, that's the thing – _talking_. Communication. It gets you far.”

He grunted. “I'm out of practice.”

You laid a hand on his chest, and wriggled closer to him. “Well, we have time, don't we?”

He smiled at you, placing his own large hand atop your own, squeezing your fingers. “We do. As much time as you'll give me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can follow my Tumblr, @inber for drabble/general ramblings.


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